


Red Hot Winter

by TheDoodleNoodle_WA



Category: Rd2 - Fandom, Red Dead Redemption
Genre: A jizzfest, Alcohol, Brandy - Freeform, Cigarettes, Dear god it’s on the ceiling, Drinking, Drooling, Dubious Consent, Fanfiction, Flaco, Flaco Hernandez - Freeform, Gay Sex, Hair Pulling, I don’t share Micah’s views, Lemon, M/M, Mallr4ts, Mating Press, Micah - Freeform, Micah Bell - Freeform, Micah Bell Being an Asshole, Micah Bitch, Micah being an ass, Period-Typical Racism, Racism, Sex, Shameless Smut, Smoking, Smut, Smut Smut Smut I cannot stress this enough, Snow, Spanking, Swearing, Table fucking, TheDoodleNoodle, ass eating, birthday gift, cum, cursing, drool, jizz, jizz everywhere, rd2, red dead redemption - Freeform, red dead redemption 2 - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDoodleNoodle_WA/pseuds/TheDoodleNoodle_WA
Summary: INCOMPLETE- FINISHING LATER TODAYMicah happens to come upon a seemingly abandoned cabin up in Colter. It’s inhabitant thinks that this insufferable, snarky stranger needs to be taught a lesson.
Relationships: Micah Bell/Flaco Hernández, Micah/Flaco





	Red Hot Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MALLR4TS](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MALLR4TS/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY MALLR4TS! 💖💕✨💖💕
> 
> Hi hi hi! This is my first time actually finishing a smut fic I started writing, (I have so many in my drafts) and I really hope you enjoy! Ive never written for Flaco before, and I haven’t seen any other Flaco/Micah fics out there before, so this is all super new for me. Comments and kudos are always appreciated!
> 
> (Also just a mini warning- Micah does call Flaco a “greaser” later on in the story. I don’t agree with Micah’s views, and I only wrote him using this dialogue because it fits his character. Please be aware of this! I don’t intend to offend anyone)

The cold, bitter wind whipped mercilessly at Micah’s skin, frost settling on the brim of his hat and bandana. With a growl of discontent he steered Baylock to the right, avoiding the steep; winding path down the mountain to look for an easier route for his mount. It was bad enough that he had to come up here in the first place, due to Dutch forgetting a book in their previous camp when they had frantically fled the mountaintop. The man had only realized he had left it behind after they had settled into their new location at Horseshoe Overlook. Micah’s gloved hand slithered down to his satchel, patting it once to ensure that the novel Dutch had been bitching about for weeks on end hadn’t flown away in the bitter breeze. Now that he thought about it, he figured that this snowstorm wouldn’t technically count as a breeze- more of a blizzard. He could barely see the winding path he had come from, let alone two feet in front of him. He was tempted to open up his last bottle of brandy and chug it down before it froze solid, but he figured that having to let it thaw out for a few hours back at the safety of camp was much preferred to falling from his saddle and freezing his ass off in the snow. 

“...Shit.” He hissed to himself, scanning the stark white horizon for a way off of this god forsaken mountain. He could feel the hair of his mustache beginning to stiffen from the cold, bits of frost and some debris from his hurriedly hucked down lunch freezing solid to the fluff around his upper lip. His tongue reached up to poke and prod, letting out a satisfied hum as a tid-bit of a canned peach found its way into his mouth. He hummed in satisfaction as he gulped down the sweet and sticky morsel, his mouth saturated in the syrup that leaked from the plump fruit. 

The sun was beginning to set, and if he didn’t manage to get to a motel or saloon before nightfall he was sure to freeze to death if he camped out in the cold. Tightening his grip on the reins he urged Baylock forward with his spurs, furrowing his eyebrows as he noticed the faintest, just barely visible wisp of something in the distance.

Smoke?

It wouldn’t hurt to take a look. Maybe it was a homestead, and Micah could snatch up some trinkets from around the house before the owners even knew what had happened.

Maybe he could con his way in, fabricate some story about how he was a poor, lost widower- just looking for some company. And when they least expected it, he could paint the walls red with their blood. He let out an audible groan of pure want as he imagined the looks of sheer terror on their faces, the way the metal felt in his hands as he pulled the trigger-

There was nothing Micah loved more then his guns.

...

Maybe Baylock. 

Definitely Baylock. 

But his guns were a close second.

As he pondered ideas for his introduction to his soon to be victims, he found himself growing more and more excited at the idea that he’d finally get some action after so many months of laying low- somebody to shoot. Someone to kill. 

It was in his nature. 

Micah was a survivor. 

When he breached the top of the hill- he was disappointed to say the least. 

A miserable, run down cabin lay in the place where he had hoped for a graendeurous mansion, just barely holding itself together with the bare minimum of materials. Rusted nails and some damp, creaky wooden planks. Micah scanned the outside. No horses, no obvious signs of a recent inhabitant- 

Shelter was shelter. 

If you could even call whatever the hell this was that. 

Considerably pissed Micah let out a huff of frustration as he hitched Baylock to the empty post outside, giving him a pat on the flank before turning to the door and sifting through his satchel for his revolvers. His shoulder scuffed against the flaking wooden walls- growling in discomfort as the splinter of wood threatened to pierce the fabric of his jacket and stab into his arm. 

He held his beloved guns up, taking a brief moment to pull his bandana up to cover his mouth and nose. He narrowed his eyes, tapping the guns together to shake the built up frost from their barrels.

With a snarl, Micah kicked down the door- mildly surprised it didn’t fall from its hinges. 

Empty. 

Well, empty of any inhabitants anyways. Otherwise the cabin was rather measly and humble, a few sitting chairs, a fireplace, a cot- that was the extent of it. Warily Micah took a step forward, glancing around before lowering his revolvers. He slammed the door closed behind himself with the heel of his boot, pulling down his bandana and shaking the frost from his hair. 

He ambled over to the fireplace, hissing as the friction of his gloves and his stinging- nearly frozen fingers met, shuddering as he sifted through his satchel for a match, instead finding a pack of cigarettes. 

He deserved a treat. The fire could wait, it wasn’t like it was going to get any colder. 

Inside or out.

He lifted the cigarette to his lips and popped it between his teeth, plopping down on one of the chairs. His eyebrows arched downwards in annoyance as he let out a growl of frustration- struggling in vain to find a lighter. 

“Damn thing- where the hell-“ 

A hand reached around his shoulder, a matchstick perched between it’s forefinger and thumb. 

“You need a match, amigo?” 

Micah let out a mixture between a squeal of terror, a snarl of anger and a surprised yelp. He fell straight on his ass off of the chair and whipped around, bristling as the man above him glowered down at him, gaze cold. 

“Did you invite yourself in?” The man clicked his tongue, tutting at Micah and letting out a mock huff of disapproval. His eyes narrowed as he noticed Micah’s satchel, flung haphazardly over the table. “Ah. I see you’ve already made yourself at home.” 

The stranger towered over Micah, his eyes bright, but always glimmering with the threat of causing serious hurt. His facial hair was trimmed and tidy, still making him look gruff and grisly; but revealing how much time he had alone to spend carving his mustache and sideburns. Shadows cast across his face, muscles rippling under the furs laid across his back. 

Micah reached for his guns as he prepared to nail the man in the head with a bullet, eyes widening in horror as he realized they were gripped between the strangers thick, visibly calloused fingers, his gaze leaving Micah as he tilted his head- pursing his lips as he mused over the revolvers. His index traced the scrawled, “Vengeance is hereby mine”- lip quirking at the corner in amusement. 

“These are nice. Who did you steal them from?” 

“It ain’t none of your business!” Micah barked, eyes darting back and forth as he waited for an opportunity to tackle the man and bash his head in for manhandling his guns. Surely he was evenly matched- from down he didn’t look like he was any taller then Micah. Micah chuckled to himself as a sense of unease rippled up his spine, refusing to listen to the way his subconscious screeched at him to run; that he was a liar, he was in denial- and this bear of a man could crush his head between his thighs like a sugar cube. 

Micah gulped. 

He sat breathless, warily watching the man’s every move. He swallowed, opening his mouth to speak again- but clamping his lips shut as he thought better of it. 

Flaco hummed in a monotone huff, clearly miffed that this stranger who had so ungraciously barged into his home was acting like he himself was the one that had broken into his property. 

“When someone asks you a question, you should answer them. You really don’t know your manners, do you? Or maybe they blew away in the blizzard.”

“Shut-“ 

“The door? Yes, that’s a good idea.”

The man stalked over to the rickety plank of wood- (a pitiful excuse of a door) and slammed it shut. The entire cabin jolted from the force of it, the wooden boards creaking as if they were moaning in protest. 

“Now, are you going to keep gaping at me like a fish out of water, or are you going to take a seat? It’s rude to stare.” 

Micah hesitated for a brief moment, before cautiously lifting himself from the floor- warily watching the man the entire while. As he lifted himself up to slither back into his seat, he worked up his courage and snapped-

“The hell do you want with me?” 

“I want you to take a seat. Relax friend. I’m not going to shoot you.” 

The man paused, head tilting forward as his hat cast ominous shadows across his stoney face. 

“Unless you give me a reason to.” 

Micah sat staring at the stranger for a solid thirty seconds, searching his gaze for any clue to why he hadn’t been shot dead where he stood for breaking into his home. Finding no answer, Micah shifted and darted his eyes away, lowering his head and fumbling with his fingers, evidently cowed by the man’s adamant glower. The stranger hummed, eyes brightening as he leaned forward and planted his elbows on his thighs. 

“How rude of me. I haven’t even told you my name.” 

The stranger reached out a gloved hand for Micah to shake, pupils softening as he chuckled warm and deep, his features still hardened as his gaze bore into him. 

“Flaco. Flaco Hernandez.”

Micah hesitated. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to touch Flaco- what if he had rabies? Would the man’s gloved hand protect Micah from his rugged mountain man cooties? 

He begrudgingly took his hand in his own, grimacing and curling his nose as he was forced to shake it for a few brief, horrendous seconds- yanking it away as soon as he deemed it fit. Micah seldom gave a damn about his hygiene, but he made a mental note to wash his hands when he got back to camp. 

“...Micah.” He grumbled, crossing his arms and recoiling back into himself. His fingers grazed the fabric of his coat, bandana wrapped comfortably around his neck. Micah’s eyebrows furrowed, every second without his guns an absolute living hell.

Well... he would do what he always did and when he was in a tight spot. Be an obnoxious asshole- and kill off whoever his victim was by giving them a brain aneurysm with his grating, sniveling voice. 

That was all he had to do. He’d let the man have his fun, indulge him for a bit and then when Fucko- or whatever the man had said his name was, wasn’t looking- Micah could lunge for his guns and nail him in the back of the head. 

Yeah. That was a solid plan. 

Much better then any one of Dutch’s ideas. 

But for now, he just had to do what he did best.

Annoy the ever loving shit out of the man. 

Micah forced himself to visibly relax as he leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms and swinging his feet up onto the table. He chuckled to himself as he watched bits of sludgy, muddy snow trickle from his boots and onto the wood. He swore he saw Flaco’s lip twitch, the man taking in a breath before settling back into his expressionless mask.

“SoooOooOoOooo- you got a “Mrs.” to keep you company during these lonesome, frigid nights?” 

Micah cooed, picking at the dirt under his fingernails and curling his nose in disgust as he flicked a hunk of gray-brown residue from under his thumb. 

Flaco glowered as Micah’s shoes continued to ooze sludge onto the table, opening his mouth to comment on the blatant declaration of war but instead answering the pudgy man’s question. 

“No. And I’d assume the same goes for you?” 

Micah snorted.

“Who’d want a lady draining their wallet and bitchin’ bout every damn thing? Hell knows it ain’t me!”

Flaco only grumbled in response, rising to his feet.

“Do you drink?” 

“What do I look like to you, a pansy?” 

Micah paused, crossing his arms and briefly darting his gaze over to the figure of Flaco, sifting through the pantry. He nibbled on the inside of his cheek, finally barking out. 

“Beer.” 

“I don’t have beer.” 

“Well then go get some some!” 

Micah could see a vein on Flaco’s forehead visibly pulse, opening his mouth in hopes that it would burst- jumping as Flaco slid past him back into his own seat, handing him a glass.

“Here’s your Brandy.” 

“This ain’t what I-“ 

The glare the man shot Micah made shivers run up his spine, his heart sinking down to his asshole as he squirmed and shifted under Flaco’s stone stare. 

The man would be harder to break then he had anticipated. 

Furrowing his brow and curling his lip in defiance, Micah let his wrist go limp, eyes brightening as he flung his glass of brandy off of the table- watching as the cup shattered into hundreds of little transparent pieces on the floor. The amber liquid splattered out, seeping into the floorboards and staining the hem of Flaco’s coat from where a few stray drops had fallen.

Micah tilted his head, blinking his eyes and intertwining his fingers by his cheek. 

“Whoopsie- How clumsy of me- huh? I bet you sure are mad, heh- your floor is ruined!” 

“Lemme help ya clean it up, I feel just awful bout’ the mess I’ve made.” 

Micah perked up as he heard Flaco audibly growl, shoulders tensing as his teeth bared. He lifted one of his feet from the table and stomped his still sludge crusted boot into the puddle on the floor, blinking doe eyed as the concoction of bilious liquid splashed onto the furniture. 

“...I think you’ve overstayed your welcome, Micah.” 

Flaco hummed, pulling out his knife and sharpening it, motioning towards the door.

Micah blinked and tilted his head, masking his excitement by batting his eyelashes with faux innocence and humming in a sing-song voice. 

“Whatchu mean?” 

“What I mean is, it’s time for you to leave.” 

“Whhhhhyyyyyyyyy?” Micah whined, jutting out his lower lip in a pout, still rhythmically stomping his foot into the puddle of brandy and sludge. 

“You’ve had your drink. You invited yourself in, and now you can invite yourself out.”

Micah quirked his brow in defiance, making a show of settling himself more comfortably on the chair.

“Y’know... I don’t think I will. I think I fancy this place- plannin’ on stayin’ for the night.. maybe even the week! Heh.” 

Cracking his knuckles, Micah purred.

“Sides’- you wouldn’t send your guest of honor to go freeze his ass off in the snow, would ya?” Micah batted his eyelashes. “That wouldn’t be very courteous of you, would it now partner?” 

Micah stood over the man, lip curled in a smug sneer. He knew he had won; and right as he opened his mouth to ever so politely demand his guns were returned to him before he blew Flaco’s brains ou-

Weightless. 

Suspended midair- the world twisting before it hit him in the face like a runaway freight train, body jolting forward as all the air was knocked out of his lungs. He didn’t have a chance to get his bearings however, as just as quickly his upper body crumbled forward- legs instinctually kicking out and fumbling for purchase on the wooden boards. 

He blinked- stupefied. His brain seemed to be a million miles behind his body before he realized how dire his predicament appeared to be. Did Flaco just... 

Bend him over his knee? 

“If you’re going to stay here, then you’re staying on my terms.”

Flaco hummed, blowing air through his nostrils and shifting behind him, pulling off his gloves and plopping them neatly on the edge of the table; before turning to his evening meal. Micah squirmed and wiggled indignantly on his lap, arching his back and kicking feebly- yowling like a wounded cat. 

Sure Micah wasn’t hurting physically yet- but his pride was already considerably battered and bruised. He hissed as the fabric of his pants scuffed against Flaco’s- reaching for anything his could to pull himself to his feet. He squealed as he felt calloused fingers begin to slither up his thigh and work his belt off, gnashing his teeth and burying his face in Flaco’s lap, thrashing indignantly as his bare ass was exposed, howling and clawing at every inch of Flaco he could reach; as if his life depended on it. 

Micah knew his Pa was probably cackling from hell, watching his prized son- the third Bell in the family, lay sprawled over a strangers lap.

“I think somebody needs to teach you how to behave properly.” 

“You ain’t my mamma!” Micah whined, his voice muffled in the fabric of Flaco’s pants. He squeaked in protest as a hand yanked at his hair, fingers tangling in his unruly dirty blonde locks and forcing him to arch his back and unbury his face from the shield of Flaco’s pants, ruining his only chance to minimize his embarrassment by hiding his flushed cheeks. Now he was forced to look back at the burly man behind him, gulping as their gazes met. He remembered his fury as a hand began to knead at the plush skin of his ass, preparing him. 

“You gone crazy from hiding up here in the mountains? Lemme up! Are you deaf?” 

And then that hand was lifted up into the air- and brought down onto Micah’s poor, unsuspecting ass with the might of every stallion from Colter to Saint Denis. He let out a sharp yelp, eyes widening as he practically foamed at the mouth; spittle flying as he clawed at Flaco’s leg with the fury of a rattlesnake. His legs dangled over the larger man’s knee, forced to curl themselves upward to avoid grazing the floor. He kicked out wildly, the tips of his snakeskin boots scuffing the ground as he struggled for purchase.


End file.
